Once there were two princes of college football, and they came from palaces in Texas, the finest kingdom in all the land.

Each led a band of merry knights, and each was beloved by his subjects. Pressure? These young men laughed it off. Great tributes rewarded their adventures, financing new stadiums and training grounds and places of celebration for future generations to gather.

On the field of battle, each assumed the dangerous lead role of quarterback. They held in common a certain swagger, a reckless courage that seemed to draw them through the front lines on foot and alone. Their movements were a thrill to behold. They always seemed to escape unscathed.

For his exploits, each won the greatest individual honor of valor, a Heisman Trophy. For all their similarities, though, they were their own men.

Photo: David J. Phillip, Associated Press

Cleveland Browns quarterback Johnny Manziel watches warmups before an NCAA college football game between Auburn and Texas A&M Saturday, Nov. 7, in College Station.

Cleveland Browns quarterback Johnny Manziel watches warmups before...

The lionhearted prince, Robert Griffin III of Baylor, was regal in bearing as well as name. Born in a far-off land and raised by military parents, he said "sir" and "ma'am," served his high school as class president and made the sign of the cross on the field.

The clown prince, Johnny Manziel of Texas A&M, matched his devil-may-care style on the field with a weakness for the demons that tempt young men. He drank and he fought. He lashed out at his supporters. He found trouble with the police. Still, the people loved him for his toughness and embraced the glory he brought home. They called him Johnny Football.

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By and by the time came for each prince to seek his greater fortune in the kingdoms of the sky, a merciless place trampled by Giants and Saints. Through the whim of the draft system by which such young men ascend, both came into the service of kingdoms riven by years of misrule, where the subjects were jaded and impatient. The knights were billed as heroes from Texas, swooping in to provide yet another shortcut to salvation.

Griffin went first. His chivalry served him well. Wealthy patrons competed to attach their names to his, which emblazoned the jerseys of supporters across his adopted kingdom of Washington. He threw himself upon the task and delivered a magical season of great bounty, but it was not to last. Soon he sacrificed his greatest gift, the speed and quickness of his legs, seeking to satisfy all the lofty promises made in his name.

Alas, Griffin worked for a tyrant king, a repugnant and mean-hearted man who insisted on an offensive name for his band of knights. The tyrant and his minions pushed and pushed until the young prince could no longer recover from his injuries properly. They spun new fantasies, but not for long, and left him trapped with no future in sight.

Manziel soon followed, leaving Texas A&M after just two seasons. After a tumultuous draft day, he joined the Cleveland Browns, where his outsized personality seemed an odd match for a kingdom without so much as a helmet logo.

Trouble soon resumed. Again, his was more of his own making. He was fined for poor sportsmanship on the field. His performances were middling at best. His knights criticized his lack of devotion. He drank too much alcohol and checked into rehabilitation. Just last month, he was pulled over in a car, fighting with his girlfriend and confessing to more drinking.

And yet there he is on the field, Johnny Football, playing on national television, with coaches half-heartedly endorsing his effort to claim leadership while eager fans clamor for an exciting savior. And there is Griffin, smiling through the pain in a sweatsuit on the sidelines, hoping against hope for his own salvation through a trade to some other kingdom.

And here we remain in Texas, left to wonder why fate treated our princes so differently in the kingdoms of the sky. Perhaps our place is just to wish them well, with thoughts of car dealerships or steakhouses as consolation.